


Eminently Sensible

by TarnishedArmour



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: A/U - so A/U it hurts, And certain people aren't dead yet - they feel HAPPY!, F/M, Humour/Parody, Not A Fix-It
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-20
Updated: 2019-11-16
Packaged: 2020-12-25 00:36:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,969
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21108581
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TarnishedArmour/pseuds/TarnishedArmour
Summary: Witches pride themselves on practicality. (A Marriage Law fic like no other...thankfully)





	1. News and Breaking the News (and hopefully nothing else)

_ ** 12 Grimmauld Place, October 20, 2004 ** _

"Right. So the legislation passed," Kingsley looked around the room filled with Order members, Aurors, and powerful, independently wealthy wizards and witches. "Any Muggleborn not married by now is required to consider any requests for consideration of marriage to a Pureblood or traditionally raised Half-blood, as well as set certain criteria for the interested parties to meet prior to submitting a contractual betrothal for acceptance or rejection." He took a deep breath. "We knew it was only a matter of time, and here we are. The announcement will be printed in the Daily Prophet tomorrow morning, and the information for the individual witches and wizards affected will follow shortly thereafter, Ministry owls delivering the missives." He stopped for a long minute, and finally got to the reason for calling the meeting.

"Who is going to tell Hermione?" He managed not to cringe when he asked. Kingsley Shacklebolt, war hero, Auror, former Minister of Magic, and all-around brave man, was oddly proud of the fact he hadn't cringed when asking for volunteers to tell Hermione Granger, war heroine, premier researcher in the Ministry, and all-around terrifying, temperamental witch, she was going to have to get married within the next three weeks.

No one volunteered. In fact, several ordinarily stout-hearted wizards turned pasty, left their seats, and Apparated a safe distance away from the impending explosion. Most of those formerly stout-hearted wizards thought that France was lovely this time of year and promptly took their vacation time early. Some actually remembered to put in for leave prior to skipping the country and calling in to work the next day. Others pretended they had been grafted to their chairs and were no longer capable of human interaction. Only two had the temerity to gulp loudly and elbow one another, whispering furiously about which one would have to break the news.

"Harry, Ron," Shacklebolt hurriedly identified the two young wizards by name and smiled brilliantly at them. "Thank you for volunteering. Make sure Ms. Granger knows before the papers go out tomorrow. Meeting adjourned!"

The stampede was the stuff of legend.

Ron Weasley and Harry Potter stood staring at one another, blinking owlishly at the suddenly empty room.

"Bloody hell, mate," Ron managed to croak out. He was known for his apt summations of sticky situations using proper British slang.

"Fuck," Harry replied somewhat less properly. He wasn't known for his eloquence, but rather for his wandwork. Both wands.

They looked at one another, nodded, and wandered over to the fireplace. Two handfuls of green powder and a clearly enunciated destination later, and two sooty wizards stumbled out of Hermione Granger's fireplace, neither with any idea how to start the required conversation.

"Oh!" Hermione looked up from her work and blinked. "Bit late, innit?" she asked, words a bit slurred from her – she looked up at the clock and winced – thirty-one hour research session. She lost track of time so easily sometimes.

"Erm," Harry replied.

"Mrmphle," Ron added.

"Well, good to know everything's normal at the Burrow and Grimmauld Place," she said, clearly not paying one bit of attention to them or their abrupt arrival after her initial recognition of their existence. "It's late. I'm tired." She yawned, illustrating the point. "We'll talk in the morning, yeah?"

"Sure," Harry said, smiling.

"Fine," Ron said, relieved.

"G'night," Hermione said, leaving them to find their way to their usual rooms. She needed sleep, especially if she was to present her findings to the Wizengamot later in the day. Really, something _had_ to be done about the present birth rate in Wizarding England.

ES***ES

Hermione wandered into the kitchen and fixed breakfast, Harry and Ron sure to follow when they smelled fresh coffee. It wasn't long before they arrived and joined her at the table, tucking in to the large breakfast she always made when they showed up late at night.

"Hangover potion is in the usual place," she said after swallowing a bit of toast with jam. She washed it down with a sip of coffee. "You are hungover, aren't you?"

"Not this time," Harry admitted.

"Not since last time," Ron added, remembering only vaguely the incredible tear they'd gone on a little over two weeks before. He remembered the drinking, but damned if he recalled the reason. If there'd been a reason.

"So, no pub-crawl, no nasty hangover, and no broken hearts over stupid witches more interested in your bank vaults than your trousers?" Hermione pursed her lips and drank more coffee. "Either someone important died, or you're here to tell me something that's going to be in the papers," she concluded. "Something that I won't like."  
Harry and Ron exchanged a look.

"Brilliant _and_ scary," Ron muttered, amending his long-ago declaration that his friend was brilliant, but scary.

Harry cleared his throat and rushed through the news. "There aren't enough babies being born, Purebloods are close to dying out, and the Wizengamot passed a marriage law. You have to marry a Pureblood or Half-blood in less than three weeks, and you have to consider anyone who expresses an interest."

"You get to set basic criteria, though, so you don't have to accept just any contract," Ron added helpfully.

Hermione nodded, drank a little more coffee, nibbled on some bacon, and finally spoke.

"So, what's the big news?" she asked.

Harry stared at her. Ron gawked.

"You have three weeks to get married, and then you'll have to have a lot of sex and at least two or three babies. With a Pureblood." Harry looked over at Ron. "D'you think all that research broke her brain?" He thought he whispered.

"Nah," Ron said quickly. "Just not enough coffee yet."

"Right." Harry sat back up. "We got stuck—ow! What was that for?" Harry demanded of Ron, who had just kicked him hard in the shin.

"Phrasing. We were asked to break the news to you, seeing as you're so interested in basic human rights, even for creatures that aren't human." Ron shrugged. "Just figured you'd have something more to say about it, that's all."

Hermione looked closely at them. "Oh, honestly. One little kerfuffle about house elves' rights and suddenly I'm the crazy witch that has to be appeased."

What she designated a "kerfuffle" was considered by the wider wizarding world to be a monumental display of righteous anger, though the Ministry workers who had witnessed it commonly referred to it as the Granger Magi-nuclear Detonation of 1999. She tipped her head to the side and decided to explain something to them. "Ron, Harry, what are we?"

"Wizards and a witch," Ron answered, confused, "but you knew that."

"Right." She motioned her hand around the kitchen. "Look around. What do you see?"

"Well," Harry began, "a self-pouring teapot that brews itself, the dishes cleaning themselves in the sink, and a mop in the next room working on the floors."

"There's also the portrait of Phineas Nigellus Black on the wall, but he's not in right now. And the plants are sipping water from the floating watering station. Oh, you charmed it to take the crazy straws, not just the plain ones. Nice work!" Ron was please to see the whimsical addition to the Self-Caring Plants he had gotten for her two years before.

"Right. We wave wands and say silly words to make things happen that would take Muggles hours, if not forever, to accomplish, my house is filled with pure strangeness, and, yet, none of these things seem odd to you?"

"Well, now that you mention it..." Harry said, as Ron just looked confused.

"Why would it seem odd?" Ron asked.

"And there's my point. I'm surrounded by strangeness all day long, every day. I fought in a war before I shaved my legs – certainly before I began charming them smooth! – and I'm surrounded by the damnedest things. How is this marriage law not perfectly normal for my world now?"

Harry nodded thoughtfully. "Well, when you put it like that..."

"Exactly," Hermione said, smiling as she saw his understanding of her point of view. A look at Ron told her he was still confused.

"I'll explain it to him," Harry offered.

"Good. You speak Pureblood better than I do."

Harry just grinned as Ron kept looking around the kitchen, trying to figure out what was so odd that Hermione thought the marriage law would be normal. Would the witch _never_ make sense?


	2. Tea, Part 1

“So, how'd she take it?” Kingsley asked, trying not to reveal his dread of seeing Hermione Granger in a temper in the Ministry halls. He would be the one tasked with escorting her politely out. The last time, she'd managed to hex three members of the Wizengamot, turn two secretaries into toads, and make a ream's worth of memo pads attack their owners. Then she'd actually pulled her wand and started casting consciously.

“She's fine,” Harry said absently, looking over the article in the paper again.

“Just dandy. She's setting up a sorting algorithm for her Owl Post now,” Ron added, “something with extensive arithmantic equations for referencing Hogwarts records and maintaining confidentiality.”

“Right.” Kingsley blinked several times, then murmured something vague about seeing to some paperwork as he wandered out the door. _Now_ what was he going to do with his early morning adrenaline rush?

***

Three days later, Hermione had the last batch of letter to sort, a small mountain of them, from would-be husbands. She also had visitors. Five of them.

Draco Malfoy, Lucius Malfoy, Severus Snape, Remus Lupin, and Sirius Black had all shown up at her doorstep, courtesy of Harry and Ron mentioning she _hadn't_ threatened to bring Voldemort back as a chained pet just to torture the idiots running the country – a threat she'd used a few months before regarding the werewolf registration legislation that had been up for consideration, legislation which had almost not made it before the Wizengamot due to the engrained prejudices of those who weren't werewolves – over this new marriage law. 

Draco was still single, young, and filthy rich. He liked the idea of Hermione as his wife, if only because he'd get to introduce her as _his_ wife, and she would be a properly owned little witch for as long as he was introducing her. Other than that, well, she was very curious about life in the magical world. If he could convince her that taking one's husband as one's master was acceptable and normal, they could have a rollicking good time.

Lucius was still Draco's father, handsome, and even more filthy rich than Draco, as well as recently divorced. Narcissa and he had split amicably after the contractual term of their marriage was up, so he was in the market for a younger model. If said younger model was pretty, intelligent, and so damned famous and well-loved that she improved his companies' stocks just by associating with him, so much the better. The fact she looked like she desperately needed to be shagged rotten on a regular basis didn't hurt, either.

Remus Lupin was intelligent, quick-witted, and not even remotely rich. He was, however, strong, tough, and a powerful wizard in his own right, even before adding the werewolf endurance and strength to the mix. He genuinely liked Hermione, and the thought of taking her to bed on a regular basis wasn't unattractive. In fact, he had thought of taking her to bed for a while now, and the werewolf legislation that was still under review prior to a vote would allow him to marry and have children. If Hermione were the witch to carry his cubs – no, children! – so much the better! She had the nicest rack he'd seen in a while.

Sirius Black was fun-loving, slightly insane from his Azkaban years, and still filthy rich. He was lazy, but only because he couldn't figure out the purpose of going in to work every day. More accurately, he couldn't figure out why _he_ would have to do such at thing. Instead, he devoted his days to chasing women, drinking with friends, and otherwise enjoying life and freedom as much as he could. The idea of marrying Hermione was attractive because he wouldn't have to work so hard at chasing women. She'd have been caught already, so he could get right to his favourite part: teasing the witch in his bed until she was desperate and screaming for him to get in her NOW! He would, of course, proceed to follow the witch's instructions, to their mutual satisfaction. Now, if he knew the woman well, like a husband does a wife, the favourite part could happen much more quickly and much more often. And he kinda just liked the witch.

Severus Snape had no intentions of even thinking the word marriage. He was just there for the fireworks show once the little Gryffindor know-it-all found out what the other four were there for.

“I see your fan mail is still being delivered,” Sirius said, grinning at her. 

“Hm? Sorry. I've been busy using my sorting algorithm.” Hermione looked back at the paper she had clutched in her hand, and then up at the wizards. “Is it tea time already?”

Several smiles flashed around the room. In the six years following the war, redemption, good works, and various projects, charitable and profitable, had made former enemies and allies into friends of varying degrees. Of the wizards gathered, she was closest to Severus Snape, a wizard whose wicked sense of humour she appreciated a great deal more now that she wasn't subjected to his nasty remarks regarding her ability with potions. Everyone there, except Hermione, though, knew no matter what time tea was scheduled, Hermione would be taken by surprise when it finally arrived. 

“Yes, love,” Sirius said, winking at her. “Knowing you were probably hip deep in something, Lucius and I had our elves fix something. Don't trouble yourself.”

Hermione nodded, stood, and led them to her parlour where tea had been set up by the Malfoy and Black house elves. She didn't object to the little dears working. She just didn't want them to be abused. After visiting with several house elves, she realized they were all deeply submissive masochists by nature and magic, so the various whallopings and self-punishments were actually another form of reassurance for the little dears. It was only when a house elf was threatened with freedom that they truly knew they were in trouble. Dobby, the notable exception to the rule, had been hit by a stray Imperius Curse when he was just a young elf, so he'd been a little bit crazy according to the other elves. Given the lack of a wide range of personalities available in elves, a touch of insanity in an elf would be interpreted as a severe psychosis in humans.

After several minutes of getting settled, serving tea, and genera chit-chat, Severus asked the poison question. 

“So, what is your opinion of the new marriage law, Ms. Granger?” he purred, expecting fireworks.

“It's about bloody time!” came her heartfelt response. At the dropped jaws and wide-eyed stares, she just blinked. “What? Do I have something on my face?”

“You...you think this is a good thing, Granger?” Draco demanded.

“Well, it's certainly going to address the birthrate and inbreeding concerns that I was about to raise to the Wizengamot later this week, but it appears someone actually read my initial study in the past two years, so I'm actually quite happy to see it as law.”

“Even with the copulation requirements?” Sirius asked, almost salivating at the idea. 

“Especially with, provided the matches aren't some random pairing ginned up by a bored ministry official. Since we get to pick for ourselves, I've got certain criteria that must be met, as is my right under the law.” After a pause, she added, “And since nothing purely Muggle like artificial insemination or _in vitro_ fertilization would produce a magical child, it only makes sense, given the goal is to increase the magical population and preserve the rich history of the pureblood houses.”

“Mm,” Remus thought for a moment, then asked, “So, you're read it in its entirety?”

“Of course,” she replied.

“And you don't find it intrusive, invasive, and a travesty of human rights violations?” Severus asked, disappointed that he wasn't going to get his show.

Hermione shrugged. “It's rather par for the course.”

“What do you mean?” Lucius asked, his voice pleasant as ever, now that he stopped sneering at everything.

She wave an expansive, expressive hand around her suite. “Take a look around,” she said, referencing her new world's vagaries. “My teapot brews and pours itself, the pictures move, the portraits speak, the table just scooted itself closer to Draco because he couldn't easily reach one of the treats, the plates fill up when an elf snaps his fingers, and this is just my parlour. There's Diagon Alley, the Shrieking Shack, Hogwarts, Hogsmeade, and St. Mungo's to consider, too. You expect me to be exercised over a simple piece of paper that makes a rather normal legal declaration?”

Everyone was quiet for a long moment. Lucius broke the silence.

“Well, when you put it that way...”

“Exactly,” Hermione said, putting down her teacup and folding her hands very properly on her knees, back straight and polite smile in place. “So, who do I have to shag to keep my wand?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That last line is how this whole thing got started, by the way. The image of Hermione sitting primly an properly, discussing things over tea, and simply asking "So, who do I have to shag to keep my wand?"
> 
> You're welcome.


	3. Answers and More Questions

The question hung in the air, hovering. Waiting.

None of the wizards dared to answer, though each and every one was sorely tempted to do just that, volunteering most helpfully to be the wizard that kept her well-wanded.

Severus sipped his tea and then asked, “Perhaps a little more information is in order before we attempt to answer that particular question.”

“Very well.” Hermione sipped her tea and thought for a moment. “I’m almost done weeding out the letters of request and preparing to set up another sorting algorithm to narrow down the field. It seems every single wizard -- and a few witches! -- have written in the last two days. In fact,” she thought for a long moment, “I believe that I have received a letter from every eligible male and some ineligible ones, too, in the United Kingdoms and Ireland.”

“You must be exhausted, reading all of those letters,” Draco chuckled.

“Not really. The sorting algorithm takes a bit of power, but it has simplified things immensely. If they don’t get past the original sets of spells, they receive a very polite rejection letter. If they do, then I’ll have to read them.”

“So, how many do you have to read?” Sirius asked, grinning, just knowing his letter made it through. The other wizards present, including Severus, who was certain she wouldn’t let him observe the proceedings if he wasn’t participating, all indicated an interest in the answer.

“Good question. Would you mind terribly if I sorted out this last batch during tea? I know it’s rude to work when guests are over, but it really is the last batch.” 

When all answers came back, she was beaming. Not only did they approve of her continuing to take care of her marriage law required duties, they wanted to see this lovely algorithm she had developed.

Hermione pulled her wand from her thigh-holster -- all the wizards leered at her legs and the bit of hip she flashed when her hem caught on her wristwatch -- and summoned the pile of correspondence to her.

The wizards blinked as a pile of letters about two feet high and four feet in diameter gracefully swooped into the room and settled neatly at Hermione’s feet.

“Very delicately done,” Lucius complimented her.

“A lovely alteration to the usual summoning spell,” Remus added. “When did you develop it?”

“Oh, last Saturday. I got so tired of having to duck and dodge things that were supposed to be useful to me, not targeting me. I just tweaked it a bit. It’s still the old Accio spell, really.”

“Of course,” one of the wizards murmured as they looked from one to the other. She “just tweaked” a spell that had resisted any and all alterations to the original since its creation by Geoffrey Geuspelte in 1332. If she shagged like she worked magic, the lucky wizard who became her husband might just have to include a mandatory lover clause in the marriage contracts. For his continued good health.

Hermione pointed her wand at the stack of mail and began intoning her arithmantic cast-equations, wand swishing, swooping, and slashing madly as she spoke. When she finished the incantation and jabbed her wand at the pile, activating the algorithm, the letters immediately stacked themselves and began running through a series of coloured beams of light. If the letter was rejected, it dropped to the floor in front of the beam of light that had stopped its forward progress. 

The first pile was about three inches high when the last letter made it through the first beam of light. Hermione summoned her form letters, counted the required number of copies needed, and magically duplicated the required letters. She carefully stacked each letter with a rejection copy, cast an addressing spell and a signature spell, and summoned a dozen owls from the Owl Post. She handed a small bundle of letters to each owl, placed two silver Sickles in each pouch for the deliveries, and sent them on the way.

“Damn me if that’s not the neatest bit of magic I’ve seen in years,” Sirius said, openly admiring the witch. “Inspired, you are, love. Just inspired.”

“Does the sorting spell work off your magic after the algorithmic enchantments have been cast?” Severus asked, curious about this odd sorting magic. He’d never seen anything like it before.

“Yes,” she sighed, sipping tea and nibbling on a little cake before she continued, “and that’s why I get the shortest letter out of the way, first. It’s the age letter. Anyone who is younger than I am by more than a year or older by more than 25 years is automatically rejected. I don’t want to have to mother my husband into being a man, and I’d rather not have to look at saggy bits before I’m starting to sag a bit myself.”

“Excellent point,” Draco said, smiling. “Well, Father, looks like you’re just under the cut-off line.”

“Mm. And how old are you, Miss Granger, if you do not deem it rude of me to enquire, given the question of age for your potential husband?”

“He cannot be any younger than 23 1/2 nor older than 51 5/6,” she replied. When Lucius smiled, she raised her eyebrows. “Did you write, Mr. Malfoy?”

“Of course,” he replied smoothly. “One must do one’s part for the population, you know, especially if one has divorced recently.”

Hermione said nothing, just smiled and nibbled on cakes and drank tea while her sorting algorithm worked in the background.

Someone brought up another topic, and Hermione listened and chimed in when she thought it necessary, but she really was getting a little winded from this last stack of mail. Really, the men who waited so long to send in their interest -- she had posted a personal advertisement in the Daily Prophet that men who were interested only had three days for her to receive their initial letter, and these were the final letters, collected around noon. The Owl Post had sent a special Delivery Parliament of Eagle Owls for this last run, and the letters had been shrunk and lightened so the owls could carry them, too! Two of the Eagle Owls had brought another shipment to her earlier in the day. Whey they fainted, she obligingly set them up and sent back notice to the Postmaster that they were recovering at her flat and four Galleons, for the inconvenience of the exhausted birds.

Hermione watched the last letter slip through the coloured lights and settle neatly in a basket with about one hundred other letters.

“Well, it’s time for me to complete the post,” she said. “Do you mind, or would you rather I wait?”

“Oh, do go ahead, Hermione,” Remus said, the others nodding in agreement. “It is so very lovely watching you work.”

“You are,” Lucius said, then paused, “an artist.”

Hermione smiled at him and raised her wand. “Well then, age letters have been sent. Next, the grammatically incoherent.” She swished her wand, collected the letters, a larger stack than the first, and repeated the duplication process. For each beam of light, she named the reason for rejection. Low marks at Hogwarts for various classes (except Divination), not enough O.W.L.s, not enough N.E.W.T.s, not enough high marks on O.W.L.s or N.E.W.T.s, objectionable business practices, objectionable arrest record (mostly for house-elf abuse, sexual acts with animals, and jaywalking -- even former Death Eaters deserve a second chance, after all!), and a few others. Most of the letters hadn’t made it past the sixth beam of light for N.E.W.T.s. 

Not one wizard in the room indicated that he had been rejected on any of the grounds she had mentioned. After the duplication spells, addressing and signing, and delivery had been taken care of, Hermione levitated the entire stack of rejected letters into the cheerful little fire. 

“And that’s that!” she said, huffing out a breath. Sorting mail really was quite tiring. “So, I have only what’s in the basket to read. What _is_ in the basket?” she wondered, picking it up.

“Looks like a little over a hundred letters, Granger,” Draco said, spotting his letter and his father’s. They had a special little tag they put on their signatures that allowed them to identify their post and various legal documents after they signed, and to prevent forgeries. With great power comes great responsibility, and all that rot. Draco thought that with a great bank vault came great caution with one’s line of credit, but he hadn’t yet figured out a pithy little statement to use to reflect that particular philosophy.

“One hundred thirty-five,” she confirmed. “I don’t expect the final number to be as large, though. And this isn’t all, you know. I haven’t set my criteria for final consideration yet.”

The men looked at one another, then back at her.

“Like what?” Sirius asked, the only one brave enough to do so.

“Well, I might need to interview past lovers or wives, to find out about personal habits and the like. And, of course,” she said, lips pursed in serious thought, “who is rubbish in bed and who isn’t.”

Remus choked. Sirius grinned. Lucius smugged. Severus eyebrow-raised. Draco spoke.

“And would you know what’s rubbish in bed?”

“Hmm? What do you mean?” she asked, coming out of her reverie, determined to speak with Molly and Fleur at the first opportunity.

“Are you a virgin, Granger?” he clarified. Five sets of ears were dead-set on finding out this answer.

Hermione blinked. “Am I a virgin? Of cou...r...se... no...t...” She paused. Thought for a minute. “Wait, let me think. Well, there was--no, no, not then. After the...no.” A few more moments of incoherent mumbling and she summoned a small scroll to her. “Let me check.”

Five men were caught sipping tea and four managed to sputter politely back into their teacups. One needed to be pounded on the back so he could breathe without choking.

Five sets of eyes were glued to the witch in question, all with one thought running through their brains and titillating their trousers: How would she check to see if she was a virgin?

Not one of them stopped to ask _why_ she would need to check.

Hermione flicked her wrist and the little scroll opened, became the regular width of parchment scrolls, and spilled onto the floor. Every wizard there could see the small, loopy writing, but not one could read it.

“Let’s see, climbed Mount Everest, visited the Dali Lama, visited with Dolly the Llama, visited Rome, met with the Pope, met the Anti-Pope (odd chap, what with the inverted hat and all), swam with sharks, swam with dolphins, backpacked the Appalachian Trail, backpacked in the Sahara, sunbathed on the Riviera, sunbathed nude for _PlayWizard_ (did that sell, Lucius? _he nodded, so she continued without pausing_), introduced werewolf-rights legislation, completed study of molecular traces of Cesium-137 in magical creatures, cured impotence in a centaur, helped develop FauxSange for vegetarian vampires, gambled in Monte Carlo, gambled in Las Vegas, visited Grand Canyon, vacationed at Dollywood, toured Hollywood, skinny dipped with Hugh Hefner, posed for PlayBoy, sang back-up for Stevie Wonder, kissed Prince William (he’ll be a looker when he grows up!), rebuilt engine in 1933 Morris Miner, drove a Rolls Royce Silver Dawn convertible, was driven in 007’s Aston Martin, met John Cleese and Englebert Humperdinck, doctored Giant Squid after he got ink-poisoning, discussed successional politics with children of King Nepthalum of the Merpeople of the Lake at Hogwarts, wrote Treaty of Vampiristic Romania, ate dinner at _Chez Rouge_ in Cannes and in Paris (the Cannes location is better, but the Parisian location is bloody gorgeous), restored access to Forbidden Forest Hill to centaurs,... Huh. Here it is. Get laid--present tense verb form. No, that’s still on my to-do list.” She looked up. “So, yes, I am still a virgin.” Her brow furrowed, and she looked back at her list. “I could have sworn...”

By some miracle of self-preservation, not one wizard laughed at the fact she had a to-do list separated by verb tense, or that ‘get laid’ was listed. 

Every single one of them was wondering if she would accept a volunteer to help her cross that off her list.

Not one was stupid enough to voice the question.

**Author's Note:**

> Please let me know what you think of this...departure from my usual fare. This idea - a practical response to the marriage law plot device - just would NOT leave me alone. This one is still in progress, and I have no idea when it will be completed, but I'm posting everything I have in the next month or so, as time permits. Or should I just not bother?


End file.
